Wake Me Up
The TARDIS keeps him tethered and upright as they hurl through the vortex. He tries to play it smooth, like he hasn't just changed his whole self, without warning, in front of the one person he really needs right now. The regeneration has gone a bit off and he can already feel nonessential functions shutting down. His ship, magnificent as she is, is carrying the weight as much as she can, just for him, just until Rose is safe.
The landing is rough but they make it to the right place and the right time. Good thing because he can't figure out how his legs or hearts or mouth works.
He remembers thinking how much hitting the ground is going to hurt.
When he wakes again, it's to the sound of her voice, to answer her whispered plea for help. Rose Tyler inspires many things in him, among them a fierce, and by all means reckless, need to protect her. So he drags himself back to consciousness because she needs him to and that's all it ever takes.
After the threat is gone and they're in the dubious safety of the Powell Estates, the Doctor wants very much to talk to Rose, properly, without all the passing out and nonstop nattering of Jackie Tyler. He's processing information out of order and it takes a moment to re-prioritize, put his Rose chat on the back burner in lieu of the probable alien invasion.
He reaches for her hand, grasping too tightly, so desperately.
I can save you, he thinks, if you just give me time. He doesn't have the time to say anything before the Doctor feels himself disappearing into the depths of a healing coma.
The TARDIS is a beautiful thing, nurturing, protective and, at this moment, a little annoying.
Nudge, nudge, nudge.
She's prodding him for something...urgent.
Urgent.
Hostile.
Rose.
Okay.
Off the floor first. Off the floor and to the console. Guttural tones echo thorough the room, the planet Earth is in trouble, again, perpetually, forever, it feels like.
Alright, upright. That's more like it, he thinks. He's taller now, but two arms, two legs, one head, not bad. The Doctor runs much too skinny fingers across his face, just to be sure. Nothing feels obviously offensive. In fact, he thinks he might actually be pretty, which doesn't quite sit right with him. No time to grab a mirror, but he's already practicing his grand entrance, his great reveal, his...bit ramble-ly, this body.
Time to focus. Time to save Rose. The rest, he hopes, will work itself out